“Then maybe that’s my purpose. Everyone needs a safe space to just talk and be heard. To lighten their load. I think that could be what I am for plenty of people,” I hum, mostly talking to myself.
“I think that’s just who you are, Hailey. Perfectly just you,” he says.
The words hit so gently I forget how to breathe for a second. I just stare at him, warmth spreading through my chest in a way that feels dangerously close to hope.
A glance at my watch snaps me back. “I should get back,” I say reluctantly. “Melissa’s covering for me, and she’s going to start glaring if I’m late.”
He nods, understanding without making it awkward. “Of course.”
We walk toward the Ridgehouse together, the open air giving way to the familiar hum of voices as we step inside. The weight of what he shared doesn’t vanish—it softens, settles—but I feel the need to lighten the mood before it sinks too deep.
Behind the bar again, I talk. Too much, probably. About an embarrassing high school moment. My plans for the summer. Even redecorating my room, like that somehow makes this place feel more mine.
When I lose my train of thought after serving someone else, he fills in the gap, easing me back without judgment or hurry. Just his quiet presence at the corner of the bar.
He feels safe. Steady. Familiar in a way that unsettles me.
I don’t know if what’s between us is real or imagined. I only know that with him standing there, I feel more like myself than I have in a long time.
Chapter 6 - Wes
Ten days since Hailey arrived. I know the count without trying. I shouldn’t. I should be locked into my own routines, my own priorities. Instead, she’s there—steady in my thoughts, the image of her clear and persistent.
She didn’t flinch when I spoke about things most men deflect with humor or bravado. She didn’t try to soften it or make it easier. She stayed. Solid. When her hand brushed mine, it wasn’t nervous or tentative—it was offered. Grounded. Her clean, vanilla scent cut through memories I usually keep buried. Sand. Smoke. Gunpowder.
She isn’t just soft. She’s capable. Present. Warm without being fragile. That combination hits harder than it should.
I don’t like how much I notice her. I don’t like the edge of satisfaction that settles in my chest every time our paths cross—especially when I’m the one making sure they do. I’ve taken a regular seat at the bar now. Not every night. I don’t overdo anything. Beer sometimes. Soda other times. Control matters.
Watching her work tells me everything I need to know. She commands attention without asking for it. People lean toward her, open up around her.
She gives each of them her full attention—but the moment she spots me, something shifts.
Her focus narrows.
She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t change what she’s doing. But I feel it the second her eyes find mine—the way she tracks me without staring, the way she holds space for me even while talking to someone else.
She notices me.
Her body turns towards mine. My skin warms. She seems to drift into me like we’re magnets coming together even when she takes her time to fall into my orbit. My stomach tightens and my focus redirects. It’s the same sensation I should be fighting, yet keeps me coming back to the bar every other night.
Then she speaks, talks with me about life in a way that’s casual and effortless, yet shows a hidden depth of understanding that makes her glow brighter, makes my mind work to keep up, and draws out all of our conversations longer than I plan.
“You think more than you say, don’t you, Captain Holt?” she asks, lingering near me while others go to drink together and dance to the music.
I shrug. “Not everything that crosses my mind needs to be shared.”
“Even when someone’s actually interested in what you’re thinking?” She asks, resting her elbows on the bar.
That gets my attention. I angle closer, lowering my voice. “I don’t see anyone here being forced to listen.”
Her face heats. “You know exactly what I mean. I like our conversations. The deeper the better.”
I catch myself smiling wider than I mean to. “How’s the search for your purpose going?”“Slowly”, she admits. “Ten days isn’t enough to figure out a life… I’ve hardly figured out if I like the decorations in my room that I’m not supposed to have. A purpose … It takes most people a lifetime and plenty of false starts to find that.”
“You’re not most people,” I play with the tip of her long ponytail for a second before regaining control. “I have faith in you discovering it quickly.”
“I appreciate your faith in me,” she says, then wavers. “I’m just not sure how to separate out dreams and ambition. Then ambition from goals. And balance passion and personal fulfillment with a stable future. How did you comb through the options to find your purpose?”
